The Incident at Salem Center General
by LondonBelow
Summary: A mission gone wrong lands one of the young X-Men in need of medical care, but as Charles Xavier soon discovers, there's something deeply amiss going on at this hospital.
1. Chapter 1

WARNING - this story will contain some adult themes including non-con. It isn't graphically depicted but it is present.

* * *

The hospital wasn't terribly busy this time of day, or maybe it was just the fact that Salem Center wasn't the busiest place for a hospital. When the green Ford pulled into the parking lot its wheels squealed against the tarmac. It was in good shape; older, but well-kept.

The kids who tumbled out were younger and, in at least one case, very poorly kept.

Jean Grey was trying not to panic. She gripped her keys in a white-knuckle hold and half-fell out of the driver's seat.

"You're gonna be fine," she promised, ripping open the back door.

"I know," Scott said. "I don't need—"

"Ignore him."

Ororo gave Scott a shove out the door, right into Jean's arms. This wasn't precisely how she wanted him falling into her arms… ignoring his protests was a good idea. Necessary, in fact, because his nose was still gushing, his breathing was shallow, he wasn't putting weight on his right leg, and oh yeah, there was a stake sticking through his shirt!

Jean and Ororo took either side of Scott and half-dragged, half-carried him into the hospital while he hopped and hobbled as best he could. This wasn't what he wanted. Given the blood on both their clothes, they weren't listening.

The doctors agreed.

An orderly took Scott's weight from the girls, helping him onto a gurney, repeating Jean's promise—he would be okay.

"What happened?" a doctor demanded.

Jean hadn't lived this kind of life. Everything but the truth flew out of her head! What happened? Somebody was holding up the ice cream parlor—who holds up an ice cream parlor?—and they were in the neighborhood and even though they didn't have anything to disguise their identities, Scott said—not to pass blame—but—they could help—

Ororo had lived a very different sort of life to Jean.

"He fell off his skateboard." She thrust her phone into Jean's hands: "Call, I'm staying with him—"

"Miss, you can't—are you injured?"

"It's his blood."

A nearby tray of instruments began to rattle.

Scott raised his head, only to have it pushed down again with a reminder to lie back. "Stay with Jean."

Meanwhile, Jean made the call as instructed. She was able to repeat this time, as Ororo had said.

"Scott fell off his skateboard. We're at the hospital."

It was actually a good excuse precisely because of how stupid it sounded. Scott Summers, on a skateboard? But when what had actually happened was that a team of mutant teenagers got a little impatient on when they could use their powers, it was a good cover story.

Ororo and Jean waited together. Ororo's hoodie moved from around her waist to over her shirt, hiding the bloodstains. Jean didn't bother. They waited in uncomfortable plastic chairs, Ororo rubbing Jean's back and promising it would be okay.

"It's Scott," she said, "he's tough."

"He was so scared, Ororo."

"You know that wasn't about being injured."

* * *

To be continued!


	2. Wait For It

_Wait._

It had been the name of the game since Charles Xavier began gathering young mutants.

 _I know you want to be heroes, but wait._

Of course he told them they were capable of great things. They were.

 _Wait until your control is better._

Of course they wanted to save the world: Jean, taught from so early how smart she was, how capable, so ready to fulfill the potential she long sensed waiting ahead of her; Ororo, who never needed to hear because she knew she was strong and knew she could help those who were not; and Scott, who would never fully recover a decade of condition to believe he was without value but found some comfort in aiding those who were not.

 _Wait until you_ _'re older, until you turn eighteen._

Besides, they weren't ready. They would need a plan, procedures. Among other things they would need medical facilities in case anyone should be injured.

 _Wait until we_ _'re ready._

Yet he had known they wouldn't. Not the children he had come to so care for, to be so proud of, for precisely the reasons he cared and the reasons he was proud. They were, above all else, above their impatience and confidence and self-doubt, good.

 _Wait until the time is right._

More than he thought of them, he thought of himself. He knew he would one day receive this call and had fooled himself, somehow, into believing he had more time. He had a few more months at least, until Scott's eighteenth birthday—an arbitrary deadline that would make this no less difficult a prospect than Jean's or Ororo's eighteenth birthdays.

 _Wait for it…_

After receiving the call, he gathered the necessary paperwork and made his way to the hospital.

Ororo and Jean were waiting for him. Both stood when he arrived, Ororo more slowly.

"Professor."

Jean had known him long enough to be past the awkward uncertainty with which most people approached the subject of contact with a man in a wheelchair, let alone the tearful hug with which Jean greeted him.

"It's all right, Jean. You're both well?"

"Yes," they both replied.

"Ororo, you're—"

"It's Scott's blood. Me and Jean didn't want to leave in case Scott was ready for visitors, but since you're here, we need to get some stuff from the car."

Charles nodded and agreed; he would need to take care of paperwork. Given the condition of Scott's body, Charles guessed he would be having a chat with a hospital social worker as well if the foster care paperwork didn't do the trick. Being legally responsible for a former lab rat raised questions.


	3. I'm Intense or I'm Insane

Ororo understood that Jean was just going along until she could ask what they were doing. Only after the hospital doors had shut behind them did she say, "Ororo, we don't need anything from the car."

"I do," Ororo returned.

They had been indoors longer than they thought. There was a chill in the air and Jean rubbed her arms before fishing in her pocket for the keys.

When they reached the car, Ororo opened the trunk and pulled the first aid kit to easy reach. "Do we have butterfly closures?"

"Yeah, second layer. Ororo."

Unzipping her hoodie, Ororo explained, "I need stitches."

Jean gasped. She _did_ need stitches. That patch of blood she had claimed was Scott's, it was still slick and wet. Her blood.

Ororo grabbed a bottle of water, then set out some butterfly closures.

"Are you crazy, we're fifteen feet away from a hospital!"

"I don't need the hospital," Ororo replied, unbuttoning her blouse.

"Ororo."

"Jean."

"It won't take long; you should go in and get it done—"

"And say what? After Scott fell off his skateboard, I cut myself because I wanted to share the stagelights? Besides, hospitals make too much of a fuss."

Jean gave her a disapproving look, but she softened when Ororo winced, peeling the wet blouse from her shoulder.

"Are you going to help me or not?"

"Just—ugh, yes, of course I'm going to help. Come on, let's be a little less obvious."

Jean took Ororo's elbow on her good side and led her around between a couple of cars to make this slightly less obvious. Maybe standing in the parking lot in her bra didn't make Ororo uncomfortable, but it was a terrible way to avoid attention! And if that didn't catch anyone's attention, presumably the water bottle and first aid kit floating after them wouldn't, either.

Cleaning it didn't go particularly well. Jean poured half the water bottle over Ororo's cut, refusing to give her any sympathy when her friend groaned. Then she wet the blouse to get the rest as best she could, dried it with another part of the blouse—or rather, the bloody rag they would need to hide if she didn't want this mentioned—and started applying butterfly closures. It wasn't easy; the cut was still bleeding.

"Didn't know I wanted to be a doctor until you two," Jean grumbled.

Ororo laughed. "You picked your university when you were five."

"I… may have… hold still! Oh my god, stop laughing, I can't bandage you when you laugh!"

"I apologize," Ororo said, barely containing giggles. "You're the best, Jelly Bean."

"Don't call me Jelly Bean, I'm mad at you."

"But you are the best Jelly Bean. You're a sour cherry."

Jean would have been offended, had she not known that was Ororo's favorite jelly bean flavor.

"Ow!"

"Serves you right," Jean muttered, but her face was apologetic. "There. Rinse it with liquor when we get home."

"You know there's no liquor in the mansion."

"Rubbing alcohol then."

Ororo nodded pulled on her hoodie.

"And it's share the _spotlight_."


	4. Moments That Words Don't Reach

Thanks to savedbygrace94 for reviewing. I hope you enjoy it! :)

* * *

There was something strange about this corridor.

As Charles left the elevator, he felt something, an overwhelming rush of emotion he was used to guarding against with teenagers at home but hadn't expected to encounter in the hospital.

Someone was aroused. Overwhelmingly, psychically aroused.

Well, that was unexpected!

Charles pushed it away; he didn't mean to invade the privacy of others. He couldn't help picking up on things. That didn't give him any right to look further. Besides, he was here for a purpose.

Near the end of the corridor, a woman stood, crying softly. Another woman stood in front of her, not trying to reach out. Charles looked away rather than serving as an unwanted spectator to their grief.

The doctor had given Scott something to help him handle the pain—he fought it, the doctor explained, which is why they had to up the dose. Why he was still sleeping. The blanket rested unevenly over his legs where one had been splinted. A dislocation, not a break.

Charles hadn't seen him sleep like this before. He looked unconcerned, his forehead smooth, a puddle of drool collecting on the pillow. The blood had been washed off his face. Why, anyone would think he was a seventeen-year-old boy…

Charles sighed. He had the strangest urge to reach out and brush the hair back from his face. Instead he removed an eyeglasses case from his pocket; not expecting Scott's glasses to be saved, he had brought a spare pair. He carefully settled Scott's glasses over his eyes.

"What… Professor?"

"I'm here. You're safe, Scott."

"Jean and Ororo—" Scott said, pushing himself upright with a wince.

"They're fine. They're fine, lie down. You were injured."

"I'm sorry."

Charles shook his head. "It's all right."

"I messed up."

"It's okay, Scott. It's okay."

"When can I go home?"

"The doctors want to keep you overnight for observation."

Sometimes being a psychic meant knowing things a person had no right or wish to know. It was how Charles knew Scott was berating himself. It was also how he knew that someone on the floor was both psychic and climaxing. The latter he pushed away but could not help sensing. Really though—in a _hospital_?

Meanwhile Scott had been unable to hide a negative reaction to the news.

"Tomorrow morning?"

"We'll see."

From down the hall came the sound of elevator doors sliding open and a pair of familiar voices. Scott looked around and settled on a crocheted blanket, which he dragged up and wrapped around his shoulders just before Jean and Ororo came in.

Charles left to give the three of them some time. He hadn't wanted them using their powers this way, not yet, but they had done it anyway. They had been friends, now they were a team. It had taken a doctor to put Scott back together, but emotionally, he would get through this with his teammates.

He couldn't help but notice the two women at the end of the corridor. One seemed to be trying to comfort the other, but her hand went through her. Literally. Charles understood then: she was a psychic projection. The first woman—a partner, perhaps?—couldn't see her.

The projection form looked down the hallway. Her eyes caught Charles's.

 _You can see me._

Then the form wavered and disappeared.

"Mr. Xavier."

Charles turned his attention away from the space from which the projection had disappeared, looking instead to the doctor.

"If you have a moment…"

He listened to the doctor's explanation and specifics about recovery, keeping to himself that no he wasn't especially worried about keeping Scott off his skateboard—it had been an excellent code word for how utterly ridiculous it was. As for the actual danger, Charles knew the hole in his chest wouldn't keep Scott from running into a dangerous situation again, but trusted it would make him try harder and prepare better for next time.

By then visiting hours were coming to a close. They all said goodbye to Scott and left him alone for what was sure to be a very long night. Charles reminded him that after what he had been through there was no need to fight the painkillers, but he knew it would do no good. Telling Scott Summers to relinquish control was like telling a fish not to swim, a bird not to fly, a simile not to be trite and overused.


	5. Down for the Count

Thanks to feathered moon wings for reviewing! Mostly that comment was for me and how exasperatingly trite my metaphors were, but I liked it so I kept it in.

* * *

Three a.m. found Scott wide awake and staring at the ceiling. He scratched idly at his chest where a bandage was taped in place. The doctors said he was extremely lucky not to have anything vital punctured. It didn't hurt, it just itched. Maybe from healing. Maybe from the tape.

The rational part of his mind understood that he was in the hospital to recover. The doctors were concerned for his safety. He would have rather taken the risk and gone home, but that hadn't been up to him. Emotionally, he saw this as a punishment. He had rushed into a dangerous situation. Professor Xavier told him he was unprepared, and he had been right!

Worse, Scott had led Ororo and Jean into danger. Hanging out with him shouldn't mean risking a trip to the hospital.

He allowed his thoughts to linger on that pleasant thought. His _girlfriend_.

Because _he had a girlfriend!_

Scott was still a bit excited about having a girlfriend in general, even more so that she was Jean. Jean was so bright. Smart, yes, but bright like enthusiastic as well. She loved things.

And she was beautiful.

 _Scott thought back to a day that spring. They had taken a walk in the woods behind campus, sat out to enjoy the weather. Jean was enjoying the scenery, but Scott wasn't impressed._

 _"It's a beautiful day," she said, sensing his bad mood._

 _"It's a red day."_

 _They were all red days._

 _Jean had a sad, sympathetic look as she reached out to bat a wildflower gently, sending it quivering. A gentle breeze amplified the motion._

 _"It's not all about what you see, Scott. Here—close your eyes."_

 _"Seriously?"_

 _"Just try it."_

 _Scott sighed, but he closed his eyes._

 _"Just… listen. Feel. Feel the sunshine…" she murmured, taking his hand. "…the wind through your hair…" She lifted his hand and breathed on his fingers._

 _"Okay, this is getting weird—Jean!"_

 _He hadn't realized what she was doing until she set his fingers against her skin._

 _"Is that a problem?"_

 _"No…"_

 _No, it wasn't a problem at all._

 _He remembered that day. The warm, soft feeling of her skin. The way she whispered to him—"Keep your eyes closed"—as his hand traveled up from her belly. The sense of someone watching them. Jean's hands unbuttoning his trousers—_

Scott's eyes snapped open and he was back in the hospital, staring up at the ceiling, and his shallow breathing had nothing to do with the stirrings of his memory. He yanked his hand out from under the covers. He hadn't meant to do that—and she hadn't, that day.

No one had been watching them, not in the woods.

He cast around just in time to see—to think he saw—a flicker of someone disappearing from the doorway.

Scott had been trained to resist psychic incursion. The first part of that was sensing psychic incursion. He knew what had happened to him. Why the memory had changed, why he had come to his senses doing something he hadn't meant to do…

He swallowed, feeling a lump kick in his throat.

Three a.m.

There were too many long, nervous minutes before visiting hours tomorrow morning. Scott knew he wouldn't sleep for any of them.


	6. Make the World Safe and Sound

Charles had other things he needed to do, but Scott was more than a student. He was like a son to Charles—and Charles had no intention of leaving the boy alone in a place he was frightened. Not, mind, that he would have used that phrasing. Either the fact that Scott was still a boy or the acknowledgment that he was frightened.

Regardless, Charles arrived shortly after visiting hours started at 10a.m.

The woman who had been crying the previous day was there, also. This time she was nearer the nurses' station. She was crying again. Charles paused.

"How long has it been?" he asked.

She looked up, surprised, and for a moment he thought she might be angry. Then she sniffled. "Two weeks. My wife had an infection, she… when I'm here it's like she's reaching out to me. But at home, I know…"

"Perhaps she knows you're here," Charles offered gently. _Because she's a mutant whose psychic energy is reaching for you._

The woman smiled. "Maybe," she agreed. "I'm, uh, who—who are you here for?"

"Ah—skateboarding accident."

"You get admitted for…?"

"Well, he's an overachiever."

It earned another smile, which was the most Charles could hope to do.

He had thought he could spare the few moments and didn't regret speaking with the woman, but when he reached Scott's room suspected this should have been his first stop.

"Professor!"

If Scott could have leapt out of bed, Charles believed he would have done. Going from the jolt, he halfway tried before his splinted leg stopped him. He looked worse than yesterday. He was pale and his eyes were smudged. He hadn't slept much, if he had slept at all.

Hospitals were not his favorite sorts of places, but Charles had scarcely expected this serious a reaction!

"It's all right," he said, not entirely convinced it was.

Scott shook his head. "Professor, there's a—" He looked around and lowered his voice. "There's a psychic in the hospital. They were in my head last night."

"Tell me everything."

Scott did, not sparing the more embarrassing details. Parts of the story made him look away and turn red, but to his credit, he did not stop. It was an extremely concerning story, but one that made sense of the fact that for the second time Charles had visited this hospital and for the second time he sensed an unusual level of arousal.

Charles nodded. "I need to speak with someone," he said, "then we're leaving, I can handle this once you're at home."

"That's not necessary," Scott replied. "I know what's going on, I can protect myself. Everyone else needs your help."


	7. She Looked So Helpless

Ellen Park had been quiet for over two weeks now. With no control over her comatose body, she let her psychic self wander, explore the hospital.

Generally she wasn't capable of astral travel. She had a weak mutation. She heard surface thoughts of the people she touched. It was just enough, now, to escape the confines of her body.

It meant she could wander the hallways. When Kate visited, Ellen tried to reach her. She always did. But Kate was a regular human. She might have a sense of Ellen, but couldn't see or hear her psychic self.

 _Hello._

That man again!

He had been here before. Last time, he looked at her. Right at her.

 _Who are you?_

 _My name is Charles Xavier. I'm a psychic, like you._

 _My name's Ellen._

 _Ellen, I believe something terribly wrong has been happening in this hospital._

She nodded. Yes, something had been happening!  
 _  
I can put a stop to it, but I need your help._

 _What can I do? I can't reach anyway._

Anyone. Literally anyone. She couldn't even reach Kate…

 _May I look into your memories? I need to know who's behind all this._

Ellen's first thought was—no. No, she didn't want him to see what she had thought, didn't want anyone knowing. Because even though it hadn't been her intention, she was a married woman. How could she tell her wife she was having filthy dreams about a man? That she had liked it?

Charles's psychic self stood and stepped away from his wheelchair. Apparently he was no more paralyzed than she was gay on the psychic plane. He offered his hand to Ellen.

It was a strange feeling, psychic contact, the way his mind communicated gentleness.

Together they stepped through the wall into her room. Ellen hated this room. She hated seeing herself this way, waxy and weak, almost unreal. It wasn't… her.

Charles released Ellen's psychic hand. She closed her eyes as he approached her physical body. She knew what he was seeing and it was bad enough to remember the feeling of a man on top of her. Drooling. Her liking it.

Her psychic self was still connected to her physical mind, though, and as Charles searched her mind, she saw what he saw. She felt what he felt.

It didn't start at the most recent. No, it started with the countdown clock at her high school basketball games, the pebbles on the ball gripped against her palm, that moment of perfect clarity between aiming and shooting…

She had seen Kate around, they were in the same dorm, but then came that movie night when they caught one another's eye, when Ellen went to make more popcorn and Kate offered to help, the things she said in the way their fingers accidentally touched…

They both saw her, Ellen and Charles, as she had been.

They both saw the hospital's psychic nurse.

His breath.

His hands.

His stubble.

His nametag—

The memory shut itself down and they were back in the hospital room, a couple of psychic selves and the shell of a person she should have been.

 _Thank you._

She didn't take her eyes off her physical self.

 _Can you take me back?_

 _I'm afraid not. That's something you'll need to do for yourself._

 _How?_

As an answer, he led her out into the hallway again. This time it wasn't the hospital hallway as it was, but a dark, shadowy place. It was mildewed. She had never liked horror movies or video games and now she was standing in the middle of one.

 _Charles, what is this place?_

 _We're in your mind. There's no medical reason you can't wake up. Only a mental one._

She saw the answer. Standing at the end of the hallway, the shadow working to block the light, was the nurse. Ellen looked from the nurse back to Charles. She knew he couldn't help her with this, that she needed to beat him on her own.

 _But this isn't real. None of it was real._

 _It was real for you._

 _That's not him._

 _No. It's the piece of him left behind inside your mind._

Her memories stood in the shadowy doorways that should have led to other patients' rooms. Ellen at 15, before her first basketball game with the high school team. Ellen at 22, the day she and Kate moved into their first apartment together, a couple of broke newly-grads. Ellen at 4, her nice dress splashed wet from trying to hand-catch the fish from the pond at her cousin's wedding.

She didn't look back again to see if Charles was there. It didn't matter. He couldn't do this for her—and she didn't need him to.


	8. Who Tells Your Story

Once Charles knew who he needed to find, tracking the man down was quite easy. He looked into another nurse's mind to confirm the man was working 7 to 7 overnight.

It was time enough to take Scott home. He wasn't thrilled about the crutches, but Charles simply glanced at his wheelchair and stopped any objections before they started.

As they headed for the elevator, Charles caught the glittering eye of Ellen Park. She and her wife weren't ready to let go of one another, but she split her attention for a look of recognition. Charles nodded. It was all that needed to be said.

Charles and Scott could talk openly once they were in the car. No one would overhear, no awkward questions might arise.

"Are you going to tell Jean about what happened?" Charles asked. They had miles of freeway ahead of them, plenty of time to talk privately.

Scott asked, "You mean about that creep trying to make me…? No."

"It wasn't your fault, Scott."

"No, I know."

He didn't sound like he knew. Perhaps he was distracted by trying to find a more comfortable way to settle his leg, not the easiest task after a dislocated kneecap.

Charles suspected that was not the reason.

"People are being abused in that hospital. You put a stop to it."

Scott shook his head. "I didn't do anything. You're going to put a stop to it. I just—tattled."

Charles couldn't help chuckling. " _Tattling_ is when you tell me Ororo hasn't done her homework. When you tell someone about a crime, it's reporting. Don't forget why you were in the hospital to begin with, Scott. You saved the people in the ice cream shop, no one can dispute that, and if you hadn't reported to me what happened, what would have come of it? He would have gotten away with it and carried on hurting people. That woman would still be in a coma."

Scott thought that over in silence, then he decided, "Chances are another one of us is going to end up there. Hospitals are bad enough without psychic perverts. If I tell anyone, they'll just be scared."

Charles wasn't sure he agreed, but he understood the logic. Scott wanted to be a leader. His peers trusted him and that was a good start; his willingness to protect them, to make the choices that would make thing tougher on him so they could do what they needed… well, they would see how he coped, but it was a good start.

As it happened, Scott's preference for this being largely ignored went overlooked. There was already a consensus on watching Star Wars that night.

The movie was running when Charles made his way to the lower levels of the mansion. He paused, unnoticed, to watch the kids.

"Hey, pass the popcorn."

"Okay."

A handful of popcorn went flying.

"I said pass the popcorn, not throw six popcorns at me!"

The response was several more handfuls of popcorn sent flying, along with yelps of protest barely audible over peals of laughter.

This wasn't where Charles had pictured himself, for so many reasons. The children were one. He had never seen himself as especially… paternal. But they needed more than just a teacher, and damned if there was anything he wouldn't do for them. For another, there was the matter of his paraplegia. He had not imagined, after this, he would be the one taking down the bad guys.

Charles made his way into the wide roomed that housed Cerebro, a look of grim determination on his face. What this man did, this psychic, it was assault. This was what the X-Men were for… to protect those without power from those with. There was no one else. There was no law, no police to enforce psychic crime.

It was easier for one psychic to sense another.

As he made his way into the hospital, the psychic nurse paused.

"Who's there?" he asked, looking around.

 _It isn't very nice, is it?_ Charles asked.

The world around the nurse went black.

 _Your power gives you the ability, not the right. What you have done is beyond the bounds of decency, of legality. You have no right at all, and for your abuse of power, there will be consequences._

The nurse stumbled. He hit the railing hard, smashing the air out of himself, still rendered blind.

"Who are you?!"

 _You deserve worse._

"It was never real!" he shouted. "It was _thoughts_!"

 _Then I shall leave you with your thoughts._

The nurse's vision returned, but he had the sense that something was wrong. One of his senses still wasn't working, or none of them were… he was half-deaf and half-blind and buried deep underwater…

He didn't realize until another nurse bumped into him on her way out of the building. He hadn't sensed her coming.

His response was a howl of pure outrage.

Back at the mansion, Charles began to separate himself from the machine… then thought better. He resettled it on his head and took one more quick trip.

 _Hello, Charles._

 _Hello, Ellen. When are you being discharged?_

She was still in the hospital, but he looked so much better. There was life and color in her face. She was sitting up, scraping the last bits out of her pudding cup. (The only edible hospital food, according to Scott.)

 _Tomorrow. Kate is refusing to leave._

 _Good._

 _Thank you for everything._

 _It was nothing._

Really—all he did was poke around in her head and tell her she had it within herself to make this end.

 _Not to me._


End file.
